


Hail to the King

by SegaBarrett



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Community: oz_magi, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Oz Magi 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-26 16:06:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3856741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SegaBarrett/pseuds/SegaBarrett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vern starts to wish he had what Beecher and Keller have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hail to the King

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iskra667](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iskra667/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I don't own Oz, and I make no money from this.
> 
> Posting this one on here too :) I hope you still like it! :D

Vern Schillinger was used to getting what he wanted, at least behind the walls of Oz. He had proved himself to be the strongest, and that was why. It was a winner-take-all kind of world, and that was something Schillinger had known since his childhood. If you were weak, the world had no place for you. He had seen that in Andy.

It wasn’t quite as bleak as all that, though. Being the strongest had its perks. One of those perks was the prags; Schillinger couldn’t lie and say he didn’t enjoy being waited on hand and foot. He could see how royalty tended to get used to it. He would rather be out there in the world, of course, but if he had to be stuck in this place, he would rather it be as the top of the food chain.

His latest conquest had been Beecher, and it had proven to be more difficult than he had planned on. The man had seemed an easy mark – there was no bit of prison might in him. He was a lawyer, and it was obvious he’d never actually been in a fight, whether he was a drunk or not. He was as meek as a mouse, but as pretty as a Siamese cat.

That had been until he’d gone batshit crazy, of course. Then Schillinger had been on a hunt for revenge. He had to do something, couldn’t let Beecher make a fool out of him.

No one had made a fool out of Schillinger since the day he’d grown old enough to punch his father back.

So he’d found his old buddy Keller, who’d been his prag just the same back in Lardner. Keller had always had some bite to him though, always a wily mischievous smirk on his face. Sometimes with Keller, Schillinger wasn’t sure that he was the one in control, and sometimes he liked that. Fucking Keller was like fucking a nuclear weapon, and sometimes that was what Schillinger was in the mood for.

But that had been Lardner, and Keller wasn’t interested in being Schillinger’s fucktoy these days; but with a little background on the Beecher situation he was quite interested in gaining one of his own.

It had all worked so perfectly that Schillinger couldn’t believe it. It was the sweetest revenge. He wished he could have taped it and replayed it over and over again. It was something that he would make into a tattoo if he could, a badge of pride, a sign – you could get the best of Vern Schillinger, but not for long. And if you lived at all, you would only live to regret it.

***

“Hey, Vern.”

Schillinger awoke to the sound of Robson’s voice, to his annoyance. What the hell was he bothering him about now? There had never been a day when Robson had woken him up to tell him he just got paroled early or had just won a million dollars. It was always some ridiculous shit.

Vern’s good mood after the Beecher beating had quickly dissipated. And Robson was only putting him in a worse one.

“What the fuck do you want, Robson? I’m trying to sleep,” he snapped.

“Just thought you’d like to know,” Robson began, putting in a pause as if he was claiming clear emotional offense, “that Keller’s been pretty buddy-buddy with Beecher as of late.”

“I know,” Schillinger snapped back, “That’s what I told him to do. You really woke me up to tell me shit I already know? I’m about to snap your goddamned neck.”  


Robson rolled his eyes.

“Why are you crawling up my ass Vern? I thought you just might need to know… I don’t think Keller is your boy anymore. I think he’s gone rouge.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

That had been the first inkling that something hadn’t been right. Then everything with Andy had happened, and Vern’s hold had been growing looser and looser. He needed a plan. He would have to figure out some way to make Beecher bend, bend as he had the first weeks as his cellmate. He wasn’t going to put up with some wily lawyer bullshit and he wasn’t going to put up with Chris fucking Keller.

***

The next time Vern caught a glimpse of Chris Keller, he was hanging all over Tobias Beecher in two chairs, side by side, as they listened to the movie with a pair of headphones.  
The movie was some action flick, Die Hard or something, and no one really seemed to be paying much attention. Beecher and Keller certainly weren’t. The hacks were the only ones who didn’t seem to be clued in on the fact that they were so close to each other they were practically the same person.

Vern felt a possessive streak he hadn’t known he possessed. He couldn’t tell if the flare up was for Beecher or Keller, but as he turned it over in his head he realized with an unsettling start that it seemed to be for both. The way they were all over each other, the way Keller kept breathing into Beecher’s ear, he could almost hear the things he was saying, the things he was suggesting, the things he’d be doing later to Beecher. And it wasn’t like it had been with Vern, where Beecher would have curled up in a ball or stared at him with hatred, no, the look of arousal in Beecher’s eyes was more obvious than an orange traffic cone at an intersection.

_I want him to look at me like that…_

Vern shook his head. Where the hell had that thought come from?

He wasn’t into any of that shit. He just liked the power. He was a sadist, a dominant, not some love-sick schoolboy into holding hands. Hell, he hadn’t even felt that way with his wife, Arlene (nicknamed Martha). With her, it had been a partnership. They’d both just been at that stage in life where it seemed logical to settle down, get married and have kids, and with all the half-breeds out there, the white stock was pretty slim.

Not that she hadn’t been a catch. She’d been a brunette with a slim face and a slimmer frame, quiet and stoic. She didn’t complain about things.

Beecher probably complained all the damn time, Vern thought. He probably whined from dawn ‘til dusk about the hard life he has to lead. 

Keller turned his head, looked at Vern, and smiled.

Vern wanted to smash something.

***

He was sitting on his bunk reading when Keller poked his head in. 

“Hey there Vern.” He had that infuriating smirk on his face. Vern wanted to wipe it off, then fuck the shit out of that ass. 

“The fuck do you want, Keller?” Vern hissed.

“Noticed you looking at me and Toby.” Keller let his tongue slide out of his mouth mockingly. “Looked like you wanted a piece of the action.”

“Fuck off, Keller,” Vern retorted, “If I wanted to have a gay old time I’d rent some goddamned Hollywood musical. Robson, please show him out.”

Keller put his hands up.

“I’m going, I’m going,” he protested, “But Vern… If you want us… You know where to find us.” He blew a kiss. “Don’t be a stranger.”

As soon as he was out of earshot, Vern slammed his hand into the bunk so hard he was afraid he’d broken it.

***

Vern’s mind didn’t rest easy that night, not at all. His dreams swelled with thoughts of being on top of Beecher, on top of Keller, or around them both, watching Beecher’s mouth open in ecstasy that he couldn’t contain. In the dream they were both on fire for him, and the three of them were taking up the whole bunk, tumbling off of it. It was this dogpile of sex, sweat, and even some blood – Keller kept biting him – and it was so good that when Vern woke up, he was covered in cum and hissing curses so loud that Robson heard him and asked what was going on. Vern promptly told him to shut the fuck up.

His mind let a single wistful thought float through it before he shut it down – it could be him over there, in Beecher’s bunk, pounding that tight ass still. And there could be something else; Beecher could be asking him for it, not out of fear but out of want.

And Keller, where did Keller fit into this? He wanted them both. 

But he didn’t know how to play this game except by force. Keller knew how to play it through manipulation. And something else… what was that? Could it be love? Did Keller actually love Beecher or was he still playing?

Vern couldn’t figure out why he cared. Must be boredom. The walls of Oz were getting too close. They seemed to shrink with each passing day, and it was getting harder and harder to breathe. 

***

He considered just going out there and taking it. It wasn’t as if it would be impossible; he had the men to accomplish it. But how would he look, leading a small army into Beecher and Keller’s pod in order to achieve some fantasy of his? And it would only succeed in getting him thrown in the hole in the end, and he wouldn’t be getting anything other than his hand while he was in there.

If he wanted it, he’d need to act like Keller – slimy and manipulative. Like a panther stalking its prey. Like the way he’d drawn Beecher in, in the very beginning.

But he’d have to be more charmer. He’d have to be contrite. He’d have to be… a million things that he wasn’t.

As if on cue, Beecher and Keller walked by, Keller’s arm possessively slung around Beecher’s waist. The images flocked unbidden to Vern’s mind. He could even conjure up the taste of Beecher’s lips, something he’d never experienced. He’d never wanted to kiss a man before but Beecher had to be sweet and tangy, like peppermint, like something you’d only eat at Christmas because it would rot your teeth.

Vern slammed his foot against the wall. He cursed.

***

Vern’s legs were taking strides, seemingly independent of the rest of his body, as he made his way down the main hall of Em City.

He didn’t know what he hoped to accomplish. He didn’t have a plan, and he had always been someone with a plan.

He wasn’t like his father. He was a thinker. He thought things out.

Except for when he didn’t. Except for when his heart got murky and started to throb and there was something that he just had to do, or else it would keep burning, burn right down to his bones, to his core, and never leave him.

“Beecher!” he called a split second before he did it. He had his hand on Beecher’s chest and he had slammed him against the wall. “You and I, we’re not finished.” 

Keller’s voice echoed behind him.

“Yes, you are.”

There seemed to be a hundred eyes staring at him. He was the king. He wouldn’t falter. Whatever he was going to do, he’d have to do now.

But a thousand days – and he’d probably have a thousand more than a thousand in Em City, in Oz – of undoing the past wouldn’t make it so.

He was the king. He couldn’t show regret.

Vern pulled Beecher up against the wall, eyes locking with his, trying to say it all in a split’s second glance. He dropped him, heard him fall against the floor, but he wasn’t seeing him anymore. He was seeing all that could never be.

“We’ll see about that,” he said to Keller.

And he walked.


End file.
